


Gachapon-pon

by frymyrisole



Category: Great Pretender (Anime)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Riding, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26506087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frymyrisole/pseuds/frymyrisole
Summary: Great Pretender Week Day 5 - Gacha Machines/CapsulesIf there's one thing Makoto's string of lovers has in common, is that they're as fascinated about Makoto's hobby as he is. They like hearing about Makoto's jumble of historical figures and facts, indulging him when he pops into konbinis and arcades to pull a few capsules.And then occasionally, they leave something for him inside a hollow gacha capsule.Usually only a really good fuck does this, and Makoto never throws them away. He keeps it inside his apartment back home, little knick-knacks that remind him of good times and good companies.
Relationships: Edamura Makoto/Clark Ibrahim, Edamura Makoto/Laurent Thierry, Edamura Makoto/Salazar
Comments: 39
Kudos: 501





	Gachapon-pon

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry for turning such a cute prompt for Great Pretender Week into pure filth. But anyway, here's my submission for Day 5 of Great Pretender Week, prompt: gacha machines/capsules. Please excuse how messy it is, it was a blur to write in one day in hopes of catching up to the prompts sobs.

Great Pretender Week Day 5 - Gacha Machines/Capsules

"There's a reason I don't do group cons, alright?"

Abigail tilts her head. "Cuz no one wants you in their team?"

Ouch. "Close," Makoto grunts out, leaning back against the hotel's soft sofa. "It's because I leave a string of lovers wherever I go. Messy business."

Slowly Abigail turned to Laurent who was mid phone call, a smile spreading across their faces before they burst into laughter. Abigail was howling, slapping the arm of the chair she was sitting in. Laurent kept snickering to himself and had to wheeze out an apology to whoever he was calling.

"What?" Makoto crosses his arm with a scowl. "I'm serious! I'm-I'm a menace!"

Abigail giggles to herself, wiping the corner of her eyes. Makoto was glad she could exhibit more range of emotions other than _stoic anger_ or _batshit insane acting_ but honestly. Was it so hard to believe that he had his own irresistible charm?

Laurent murmurs an _I'll call you back_ to his phone before he turns to him with the widest grin imaginable. "Are you telling me you're a sex fiend Edamame? A playboy? _You_?"

Makoto clicks his tongue. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Abigail and Laurent shared another look with each other before bursting into laughter once more.

Makoto takes off his fake glasses and sighs. Always with the non-believers.

-

Salazar presses him to his living room sofa the moment he stops talking, lost in his memories. Makoto lets him, resting both his hands on Salazar's arm, humming at the muscle he feels under his thin maroon shirt. He always did like fooling around with bodyguards. Rippled body, not too smart either. Easy getaway, and Makoto has even gotten a few passcodes and staff cards through it in the past.

"Is this okay, Doctor?" Salazar asks, hands hovering over his waist.

But he's in too deep with Salazar. He never should've gone to the amusement park with him and Tom. Never should've pestered his past or his reasons for following such a despicable man. He should've kept his mouth shut and did his work. Should've kept _away_ from group cons, damn you, Laurent.

Makoto cups Salazar's jaw, and nods. The taste of whiskey was prevalent in the man's mouth. Bitter, sour, addictive. Makoto whines, parting his lips. Salazar's devilish tongue slips in, teasing the roof of his mouth, clicking their teeth together.

A hurried and desperate shuffle later Makoto's tie and suit jacket are discarded haphazardly in the living room. Salazar slowly unbuttons his shirt as Makoto stares at him, wondering. Cynthia's offer ringing in his head.

Salazar raised an eyebrow when he fully unbuttons his shirt. "Distracted, Doctor?"

They're still playing pretend, even now. Even when the teddy bear wrapped tightly in cords is right there on the table. An idea came then, dangerous, borderline insane. But if he has to ensure Laurent and Abby never figure out what he's planning, it's perfect.

"Mind waiting a sec?"

Salazar shrugs, leaning back. Makoto shuffles to the coffee table and looks around, smiling when he sees an open outlet. He plugs the teddy bear into it, settling it so it's facing the sofa.

Salazar looks at him in confusion, but Makoto eludes him by tugging off his belt and pants. The bodyguard grins at that, his large hands settling on the back of Makoto's bare thighs. "Looking to entertain someone, Doctor?"

"You could say that." He laughs, climbing onto Salazar's lap. He hums when he has to spread his leg wider to accommodate the man's thighs.

The perks of having sex with a single man in their forties who lives alone is that they have lube _everywhere_. Salazar pours some into his hand and with Makoto's nod, he presses a thick finger to his hole. He even had the decency to warm the thing beforehand, and his prodding is patient and thorough.

Soon he has three fingers inside him, and Makoto squirms in Salazar's lap, eager. The slick sound of his digits entering and exiting his hole is lewdly echoed in this empty house, and only Makoto's moan covers it. He's panting, gripping Salazar's shoulders in pleasure.

Salazar takes this as an opportunity to lean forward and takes one of Makoto's nipples in his mouth. Makoto moans when a hot tongue lavishes his nub, perky from the cold air. Salazar's tongue sucks and pulls, rubbing a rough thumb over it. Makoto runs a hand through his short cut hair, nudging him closer.

"Mm…" he pants when Salazar's fingers hit his sweet spot just as he moves on to his other nipple. "I think I'm ready…"

He pulls at Salazar's pants, smiling when his cock bobs out. Just as big as he imagined. Salazar flushes from his stare, covering it with his unoccupied hand. "It's been a while, alright?"

"Please, I'm honored," Makoto murmurs, batting Salazar's hand away to replace it with his own. "In fact, why don't I prepare you?"

And that's how Makoto falls to his knees, stroking Salazar's large member with both his hands. He gives the head a tentative lick, moaning when the taste of salt and precum hits him. He takes the head and sucks, tight and wet and hot. He looks up at Salazar, waiting for him to look back, before he deep throats the cock in one go.

Salazar grabs his hair tightly with a scream. "D-doctor!"

Makoto hums around the cock, stroking it with his tongue enthusiastically. He pulls away to lick it from its root and up up up, before he flicks his tongue on the slit. Salazar muffles his moan with his hand, nearly bucking over from his seat.

Makoto's hand sneaks down, wrapping his own fingers in his abandoned cock and stroking it in tandem with the hand stroking Salazar. The cock in his hand was sloppy with saliva and precum and Makoto loved it. Loved the taste and weight, loved the way it fit in his hand.

He exaggerates his moans a little for the people behind the camera, but Salazar was the biggest he's had in a good while. Slowly he presses the cock to the side of his cheek, showing off the bulge it made.

"Fuck!" Salazar cursed, stroking his jaw. "God. You're nothing like what I thought Doctor."

Makoto pulls away with one last pleased smile. "I get that a lot."

Just before he climbs on top of Salazar's lap he takes a swig of his remaining whiskey, swishing it in his mouth. Salazar watches him with hunger as he bobs his throat and swallows the burning liquid. Salazar's hands grab him greedily, and after a blowjob or two, most of his lovers forgo shyness.

He presses an open-mouthed kiss to Salazar's jaw as the man fumbles with his cock, grinding it to the cleft of Makoto's ass. Obligingly he parts his ass and grabs Salazar's cock, teasing the head in and out of his hole.

With a growl Salazar pushes him to the sofa to tower over him, grabbing both his knees and folding it halfway to his chest. Makoto grins cheekily. "Impatient?"

"Very." Salazar grunts before he shoves his cock in, lube slathered sloppily. Makoto grimaces at the stretch. It's been a while since he's mostly been running for his life these past few weeks. But soon the pain gives away to pleasure, and with a hook of his feet behind Salazar's waist, he whimpers as Salazar penetrates him deeper and faster.

The slap of Salazar's heavy balls against his ass makes him keen, sinking his nails onto Salazar's back. He writhes under Salazar's heavyweight, moaning and whimpering over every thrust and screams when Salazar hits his sweet spot.

The man pants as he pulls away just enough to look down at Makoto with a heated look. He presses a hand to Makoto's stomach, and only then does he realize the bump prodding it. "Jesus," he breathes. "Is that your-"

"Fuck...you're so tight…" Salazar grunts, spreading his legs impossibly wide and fucking him rough and fast, his eyes never leaving Makoto's stomach. Makoto whines, loving the grind Salazar's cock gives, moans when the head of his cock slips out, only to enter him again in full throttle.

Salazar cums with his cock buried deep inside Makoto, and he whines at how full he feels, filled to the brim. With a few shaky strokes, Makoto cums in Salazar's hand, laughing when the man slumps over him immediately after.

"Tired, old man?"

"Hn."

Makoto plays with Salazar's golden earring as they catch their breath. Lowly, he whispers, "Salazar?"

"Mm."

"If...if you _could_ leave, you would, right?"

Salazar shifts them both until Makoto laid over him, head propped up his arm. "What's with all the questions, Doctor?"

Makoto traces the tattoo in Salazar's chest absentmindedly. "Just...just a what if, that's all."

Salazar hums, brushing his hair back. "If I could leave, I'd take Tom and drive far far away. Move to a new neighborhood, a good one. Close to school, a private one even. Start fresh with a decent job, the usual 9 to 5 shit, and let him study whatever he wants in college."

Makoto smiles. "You'll get to do that. I know you will."

"Heh. Going to cast a little Sakura magic on my life, Doctor?"

"...something like that."

-

If there's one thing Makoto's string of lovers has in common, is that they're as fascinated about Makoto's hobby as he is. They like hearing about Makoto's jumble of historical figures and facts, indulges him when he pops into konbinis and arcades to pull a few capsules.

And then occasionally, they leave something for him inside a hollow gacha capsule.

Usually only a really good fuck does this, and Makoto never throws them away. He keeps it inside his apartment back home, little knick-knacks that remind him of good times and good companies. 

Salazar leaves him a strawberry candy inside a red capsule. 

Makoto slides next to him with only his shirt that morning as Salazar cooks him a ham omelet. When he pokes his tongue out at him, tinged red from the candy, Salazar growls, tugs him by his waist, and bends him over right there over the kitchen table.

Sadly Makoto did not in fact get to gloat about his sexual prowess. _Someone_ had the brightest idea of faking their own death and traumatizing Makoto for _life_ for millions upon millions of dollars.

At least, Makoto thought as he felt for the candy wrapper in his pocket, his impending need for therapy would be worth it.

-

"It's my fault he got hurt. Not a day passes that I don't regret it."

Makoto sees the guilt flashing through Clark's eyes, a regret so deep that it either eats you away or you eat it first, lying to yourself over and over until it becomes a new truth. Women, money, and booze. Dancing loop after loop in the palm of his brother's hand. Was that all Clark's life could measure to?

When he feels Clark's clenched fist loosening from his tan uniform he grabs the pilot's wrist. Clark blinks. "Makoto?"

"Stop it," he shouts. "Stop being so fucking pathetic!"

Clark's lips parts in surprise. "M-Makoto?"

"So what if the accident happened?" Makoto snarls. "News flash, shit happens all the time. Machines break down. You're literally competing in one of the most dangerous sports in the world. And yeah we both know your brother is a piece of shit, but that doesn't mean you have to be one too! If you're so fucking regretful, for once in your life, be a man and race for real!"

Makoto pants as Clark stares at him, wide-eyed and mouth open agape. With a grunt, he shoves himself out of Clark's hold. He avoids the man's eyes as he grabs his toolbox and rags. "Get out. I need to fix up your plane before the race tomorrow."

Clark hesitates, feet shuffling on the garage floor, but with a defeated sigh he walks away, the only witness to their argument being the setting sun.

-

Makoto nearly has a heart attack when he sneaks into the garage that night to find Clark lounging in the cockpit, looking lost and forlorn.

"Jesus!" Makoto yells, clutching his beating heart through his toscan polo shirt. "What are you 'doin here?!"

"Lamenting my life," Clark murmurs, swinging back a bottle of beer. A few droplets stray from the corner of his lips, and he wipes them away absentmindedly. "As one does a day before a match. You?"

"Came to uh...check up on this baby on last time," Makoto laughs awkwardly, slapping the hood of Clark's plane. "Looks good to me though! Well then, excuse me…"

"Wait." Fuck.

He turns to see Clark bending over the cockpit, a pained look on his face. "Makoto. I just-I just want to say sorry. For blowing up on you this afternoon. I know out of the two of us you must be even more frustrated than me."

"Yeah...well," Makoto bites his lip. "I _was_ Luis' mechanic."

"He's bloody amazing isn't he?" Clark sighs. "The way he flies-ruthless, yet elegant at the same time. You've seen him at his peak, haven't you? The 360-degree loops he used to make, God-it made me question whether we were flying in the same sky."

"You are," Makoto sighs, stepping next to the plane. He takes the bottle of beer from Clark's hand before it falls from his limp fingers. "You know, for a so-called playboy, you sure have low self-esteem."

"Can you blame me?" Clark grins. "My whole career is built on a lie and a den of dirty money."

"Look, anyone can bribe their way into anything. That's just how the world is," Makoto rests his head on the crook of his elbows, staring at Clark. "But take it from me. Money only takes you so far. You have something in you, Clark. Charm. Skill. Bravery that borderlines recklessness. When all this is over...you'll do just fine."

"Over?" Clark asks.

"Uh, you know, the match," Makoto clears his throat. "Afterwards just...ride off to the sunset. Forget everything. Well-I guess in your case it's fly off."

Clark silently stares back at him, before a hand brushes back Makoto's hair and uselessly tries to tuck it behind his ear. He blinks rapidly in surprise. "Clark?"

"Fly off to the sunset huh…" Clark murmurs. "You really think I can do that?"

"I think...you're the type that can do anything you put your mind into."

"Yeah?" Clark leans forward. "Even this?"

Makoto's breath hitch. "Even this."

They meet with a mess of tongue and teeth, Clark running his hand through Makoto's jaw to tilt his head up. The kiss strains his neck, but Makoto doesn't pull away until he loses his last strip of air.

When they part, a thin string of saliva trails between their lips. Clark shudders, and eagerly tugs Makoto inside his plane. "Here, hold on."

With a little fumbling Makoto manages to half straddle Clark as the pilot leans back against his seat. They stare at each other for a while, before they blurt out, "What now?" at the same time.

"I don't have lube on me," Clark says sadly.

Makoto purses his lips. Then he sees the few strays of beer bottles on the bottom of the cockpit and hums. "Well…"

Somehow, he ends up pressed up front against the row of machines, the steering wheel of the plane digging to his chest. His pants have been tugged down until his bottom is bare, and with a hint of anticipation, he shivers.

He sees Clark licked his lips from the windshield and presses his lips close preemptively. When Clark's hands grab him by the waist he lets out a small gasp, turning it into a breathless moan when he feels Clark's tongue licking a stripe of his hole.

"C-Clark!"

"Don't worry baby," Clark murmurs. "I'll take care of you."

Enthusiastically, the pilot licked Makoto's hole over and over, teasing him with a small push of his tongue before he pulled away with a squeeze to his ass. Makoto growls and impatiently grabs a fistful of Clark's hair.

He hears Clark take a stunted breath and grins, meeting his eyes from the windshield. "Baby, I'll take care of me just fine."

With a push, he shoves Clark's face between his ass. Moaning, Clark spears his tongue inside his hole, fucking him with his wet appendage. Makoto throws his head back in pleasure, never easing the pressure he has on Clark.

Clark's clever tongue fucks and rubs his inside, wetting it with a mess of saliva. When Makoto pulls him away for air, he slurps out loud before diving back in. Makoto moans, riding Clark's face and grinding his hips erotically back and forth.

When his hole feels loose enough, he lets go of Clark. Fumbling with an unopened bottle of beer, he rests it on the edge of the cockpit, and slams his hands down the top. The bottle cap flies across the garage, and a fuzzy bubbly liquid overflows.

Makoto licks his lips. Clark leaned back in his chair in a daze, and slowly he pours the beer onto Makoto's ass. 

He moans as the cold liquid drips all over him. He rubs and spreads his fingers down the crack of his ass, pushing the liquid inside.

Clark throws the bottle down the floor when it empties, and it lands right where the first bottle he broke was. With a hard pull, Makoto half sits on Clark's lap.

The pilot grinds his cock against Makoto's ass, wetting it with the sticky beer still stuck to his skin before he shoves his cock inside in one go. Makoto screams, grabbing whatever he could as Clark fucks him roughly, forcing him to bend over.

Clark's cock burns, hot and long, hitting him in all the right spots. He feels every inch as it grinds in and out of his ass. Clark bends over with him, running his hand through Makoto's polo shirt and rubbing his nipples. Makoto whines, snapping his hips back desperately to meet Clark's thrust.

The pilot licks his sweaty neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses and moans to his skin. Makoto cranes his neck, and their tongues meet, sloppy, uncoordinated, and yet so _so_ good.

Makoto cums first with a stunted moan, staining the steering wheel and the plane's shifter. Clark grunts, slapping his hips against Makoto's thigh ruthlessly and fucking him through his orgasm.

"Ah-ah!" Makoto whines, grasping at the edge of the plane. "Ungh-Clark I can't-!"

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, grasping Makoto's jaw and pressing one last sloppy kiss to him. "I'm close, I'm so close baby."

"Come on," Makoto whines, tightening his hole. "Come, Clark, come for me!"

Clark howls, and with one last push deep to his very base, he cums, filling up Makoto's ass. They collapse against the chair, heaving for air.

"Holy shit," Clark says. "Holy shit."

"You can say that again." Makoto groans, grabbing another bottle of beer and chugging it down.

-

Clark's gacha capsule is blue, as blue as his eyes, and inside is a miniature version of his airplane.

Makoto watches as it drifts across the river between him and Abigail.

"Did you enjoy that?" He sniffs.

"Yeah." Even she sounds surprised by her answer.

"Then I guess it was worth it." He sighs, reaching his shaky hand out to close around the gacha capsule and lets the clear water trickle down between his fingers.

Abigail laughs then, the most genuine laugh he ever hears her does, and again despite tallying up fear of heights to his growing list of unresolved therapy sessions it's worth it. Everything seems to be when it comes to this group of stragglers.

He raises the gacha capsule up, and smiles as the sky and clouds drift through the blue transparent plastic.

-

"It's official," Makoto turns to Thomas with a grin. "Your debts done paid and erased in full. You're a free man."

"Hah," the painter sighs in relief. "And here I said I wasn't going to paint again."

Makoto smiles. "You'll paint again."

Thomas blinks. 

"Your eyes," Makoto gestures with his gloved hand. "They still shine even when your face looks haggard. And your hand never put down that brush, even when you're eating or going to the bathroom."

Thomas flushes, rubbing a paint-stained hand over his three-day stubble. "That...well, old habits die hard you see."

"Habits huh," Makoto grins wryly. "Thomas, do you know who Edward VIII was?"

"Edward VIII?" Thomas sits down on his bed with a huff. "Wasn't he the shortest reigning king of England?"

Makoto nudged the two briefcases to the side and nodded. "All he did throughout his youth was rebel, hopping from lover to lover, from bachelorettes to married women. It wasn't until he met Wallis, a two-time American divorcee that he discarded his title to marry her."

Thomas stretched his arm up with a groan. "What a loser."

"Right?" Makoto laughs, tugging his beanie up. "He was even accused as a Nazi sympathizer before he fucked off to Paris and retired with his wife."

"Why the sudden history lesson?"

"Makes you think doesn't it," he murmurs. "How shitty his life was. But compared to us-he's lived the most honest life he could."

Thomas pauses at that.

"He has to be one of the most ridiculed monarchs in the world," Makoto shakes his head. "But damn did he say his mind and do whatever he wanted, family name and expectations be damned."

"Still a shitty Nazi sympathizer though," Thomas adds.

"Still a shitty Nazi sympathizer."

They both chuckle lowly at that. 

"Well, the real painting's in the silver briefcase," Thomas shrugs. "Whatever it is you want to do...don't do it for me. I've made my bed, now I have to lie in it."

Makoto rubs his cold reddened nose and nods.

-

"Cynthia told me ya given up drawin."

Laurent pulls his stupid white fedora off his face with a curved smile. "And you? Have you given up being a sushi chef?"

"Don't even." Makoto sighs, looking over the beach with a forlorn look. 

"Well, if it gets you nowhere," Laurent muses. "Sometimes you just have to give it up."

"Spoken like a true conman."

"But you did surprise me these past few weeks," Laurent grins. "I thought you'd hit a wall and immediately run to me, but you held up on your own for a while there."

Makoto clicks his tongue, kicking Laurent's beach bench. "I _said_ it was all accordin to plan!"

Laurent laughs as his seat shakes with each kick. "Yes yes, our little Edamame has grown up quite nicely."

"Cheh."

"Makoto," Laurent calls just as he moves to turn back and grumble all the way back to the hotel. "I am curious though."

"What?" Makoto sighs.

"Did you do it because you took Thomas as a lover?"

Makoto stares at the Frenchman for a hot minute before he bodily shuddered. "Are you kidding me?! With Cynthia's ex?! She'd gut me on the spot!"

"Well, he _is_ an ex. And you do leave strings of lovers wherever you go...evidently."

Evidently. Evidently. He gasps, trudging back to Laurent and yanking his head off his face. "So you _did_ know!"

Laurent scowls, and if Makoto wasn't hallucinating, was that...a pout? Laurent Thierry, pouting? Over _him_?

"Hard not to," Laurent mutters. "The teddy was one thing, you basically made a sex tape. With Clark, you left a bug I planted on you. And with Thomas-well. You kept coming to his apartment. I was sure he'd sketch you nude and have his way with you."

Makoto presses a hand over his lips, trying his best to muffle his laugh. He fails, and he burst into tears, clutching the plastic chair from keeling over. Laurent's cheeks flushed as he tugs his suit jacket awkwardly.

"I can't-Laurent, were you _jealous_ ?" Makoto wheezes. Then he remembers Cynthia's words as he passed her on the way to the beach and gasps once more. "Oh my god, were you practicing how to draw so you could draw _me_ nude?"

"I-" Laurent chokes off with a grimace. "Nevermind. Let's just go back to the hotel."

"Laurent, you _literally_ staged all of this," Makoto gestures wildly. "Were you-oh my god-you were hopin to swoop in and save the day with your own drawing weren't you?!"

Laurent speed walks in front of him, and Makoto has to take bigger steps to catch up to him. Laurent mutters under his breath, his cheeks still red with embarrassment.

"You just give me the coldest shoulders sometimes, alright? It seems you're only nice to people you're involved with in a job."

Makoto stifles another laugh bubbling in him as he reaches out and wraps his arm around the crook of Laurent's. The blond looks down at their entangled arms in surprise.

"Just so you know," Makoto says lightly. "I haven't taken any lovers in this job."

Laurent stares at him, before a smirk tug the corner of his lips. "No? May I have the honor of changing that then?"

"Depends. Can you woo me with your drawing, _artiste_?"

-

"What did Cynthia call James again?" Makoto murmurs as Laurent presses him down the soft bed. "A swindler, hollow fraud of a gentleman, and a bastard?"

"Ohh," Laurent winks. "Save the dirty talk for later, Edamame."

Makoto rolls his eyes, obediently letting Laurent tug his beanie off, along with his belt and pants to join his jacket down the floor. When he moves to tug his blue sweater off, Laurent stops him with a kiss.

It was soft, slow, and more innocent than he thought coming from Laurent. He licks his lips when they part. "What? You want my sweater on?"

"I've had to see you prance around France in that loose excuse of winter wear for _weeks_ ," Laurent whispers to the crook of his neck. "All the while I wanted to _bite_ into your skin and mark you mine."

Makoto shivers, and he leans his neck back as Laurent does just that. He licks and sucks mark after mark, bruise after bruise. When he tires he rubs his stubble against Makoto's skin, grinning when he feels Makoto shiver from how sensitive he is.

He straddles Makoto as he strips out of his suit jacket, and cheekily Makoto pulls at his stupid fancy scarf to make him lean down and kiss him, coaxing his tongue inside Laurent. There's a saying here, about Frenchmen and french kisses. They invented it, so they're all bloody good at it.

Makoto whines when Laurent's tongue, hot and heavy licks into him, eagerly taking over the kiss. The Frenchman even bites down his lip when Makoto tries to close it, and he parts it with a pained moan.

Laurent nudges his knees to part, and with a flush, he realizes he's the only one with his cock out in the open. He covers it with one of his arms and stares at Laurent accusingly. "You too dammit."

Laurent raises his hand in acquiescence. "One naked Frenchman coming right up."

There's something about just looking at someone as they strip. Laurent's not exactly teasing him, he's not slow, but he's not exactly fast either. He takes his time to fold his scarf, unbutton his shirt, and even unbuckle his belt and fold his pants over a chair.

Makoto pouts, a little annoyed at how slow Laurent is taking this. He rolls to his stomach then and takes the matter to his own hands. He uncaps the lube and spreads it in his own fingers before he reaches down and rubs his entrance. Makoto moans when he pops a finger in, already feeling the loss his usual lover's fingers feel.

But he persists anyway, letting himself take two fingers. He rubs at his entrance with his thumb as he fucks himself, circling his fingers for that sweet spot. He's rutting against the bedsheets, cock leaking as he muffles his moan on the pillow.

"My my," Laurent says huskily. "Having fun without me?"

"You better...hurry," Makoto sighs, squirming under Laurent's eyes. "Else I might give Thomas a call after all."

Laurent's eyes flash at that. Anger? Jealousy? Possessiveness? Whatever it is, it sends a shiver down Makoto's spine.

Laurent sits down at the edge of the bed, casually stroking his cock. And oh, very nice. The largest he's seen for a while now. 

"Just for that," Laurent murmurs. "I'll watch you prepare yourself."

Makoto gives him an indignant look. "You-"

"I," Laurent interrupts, not even looking at his face. He's transfixed with the way Makoto's fingers glide in and out his entrance, the lube dripping down his ass and supple thighs. "Have been very patient. Now you have to be too."

Makoto blows his bangs away in frustration. Fine then. In spite, he fingers himself roughly, as fast as he'd like to get fucked with an actual cock, and he bucks and writhes into the bed in pleasure. Saliva drips from the corner of his lips from how much he moaned.

Laurent curses, grabbing the base of his cock. "Jésus, Edamame!"

"Laurent," he whispers, spreading his hole open with his fingers for the blond. Laurent whimpers from behind him. "Are you sure you just wanna sit there? My mouth's lonely you know." And with that he sticks out his tongue, opening his mouth wide.

"Merde! Friponne!" Laurent curses as he grabs Makoto's hips and pulls.

With a laugh, Makoto shifts until he's facing Laurent, half sprawled in his lap. Without pausing his fingers, he takes Laurent's thick cock in his hand and licks it, only small kitten-like licks on the bulging head.

Laurent runs his hand through Makoto's hair before he pushes him down and forces Makoto to take more of his cock. He nearly chokes, but he lets his tongue loll out, resting the cock on it before he sucks it, making his mouth wet and tight. 

"Oh, Makoto," Laurent croons. "You're so good. Such a pretty little mouth."

Inwardly pleased at the praise, he starts to take more of Laurent in an attempt to show off. Soon the head hits the back of his throat, and Makoto moans, knowing the vibrations drive his lovers wild.

Laurent bucks his hips up, relentlessly grabbing Makoto's head and fucking him to his cock. Makoto sputters but quickly relaxes his throat.

In punishment he reaches down and _squeezes_ Laurent's balls, fondling them and rubbing the spot between them. Laurent lets him go with a shout, his hands clumsily closed around his cock. "Oh, mon Dieu…"

Makoto wipes his lips with the back of his hand, glaring up at Laurent. "Rude."

"Sorry, Edamame," Laurent murmurs as he leans down and kisses him, slow and thorough. Tasting himself in Makoto's tongue. "You were just too good."

Makoto rolls his eyes, and he signals his impatience by loudly taking out his fingers. Laurent's eyes snap to them immediately.

"Come on, Laurent," Makoto whispers. "Fuck me."

The blond nods enthusiastically, going behind Makoto. He reverently runs a hand on both his ass, before he leans in and gives his hole its own French kiss. Makoto whines, pushing Laurent's head deeper. His clever tongue tightens and jabs at just the right spots, and he pulls away with a sloppy kiss to his entrance.

"Satisfied?" Makoto says, voice hoarse.

"Not even a little."

Laurent bends over him and rubs his cock liberally with lube before he pushes the head of his cock inside Makoto. He whines at the stretch, and he reaches down to spread his ass with both his hands. 

Laurent curses as he thrusts his hips forward, and what must be his whole cock is shoved inside his hole. Makoto moans his own cock jerking and leaking precum. Laurent takes both his wrist in one hand as he fucks him roughly, his lean thighs slapping against Makoto's ass.

"Mm! Laurent!" He shouts and breaks off to a whine when Laurent purposefully dodges his prostate. "Laurent please!"

"Ungh," Laurent grunts, before he forces Makoto's hands up above his head, holding them there as he fucks into Makoto. "Makoto...Mm...Makoto…"

Laurent fully covers him as he leans down, letting go of his hand to grab Makoto by his wait and fucking him in earnest, each thrust hitting his prostate. Makoto meets him halfway, pressing back and thrusting his own hips. The blond pressed kiss after kiss, shaky and soft on the expanse of Makoto's back.

And then, he nips the skin right in the center of his spine, sucking a red blotchy mark.

They come together with a groan, Laurent burying his cock deep inside, cum filling his ass. Makoto stains the sheets as he comes untouched, a feat he hasn't managed since his high school days.

Laurent slumps over him without taking his cock out, sighing. "I'm _exhausted_."

"Really?" Makoto smiles, petting his head. "But I'm ready for round two."

Laurent's head snaps up as he looks at Makoto in mock horror. " _What_?"

Makoto tightens his entrance and grins at Laurent's gutted look. "Told you I was a menace."

-

Makoto wakes in Laurent's arm the next morning with a big yawn that nearly dislodges his jaw. Beside him the certified himbo was uncharacteristically snoring, sniffling every now and then. He cranes his ears out and he swears he could hear him mumble, _tenir le sexe, tenir le sexe._

He presses a kiss to the corner of the Frenchman's lips at that.

He did try very hard to keep up with him.

Makoto bunches the sheets over him as he steps out of the bed, shivering and wiggling his feet on the cold floor. He scans the bedside table for his phone, only to find something familiar nestled on top of it.

Next to his red and blue capsule is a purple one, the color too dark to make up what's inside. Makoto fumbles with it in excitement. With a soft _pop_ the capsule breaks open, and out tumbles a folded piece of paper.

Slowly and carefully he unravels it, and his breath hitched when the picture comes to a full view.

It's the beach in Nice where Laurent likes to come to every day. The rough pencil and charcoal sketched out the emptiness and beauty of the seaside beach. Laurent drew Cynthia and Abigail near the edge of the sea, laughing at each other, their coats and hair blowing with the wind.

But what took his breath away was his own face looking back at him. He was mid-sentence when Laurent drew him, his eyebrows furrowed and shoulders hunched in annoyance. But his lips still curled upwards, a helpless smile threatening to break out.

He runs his hand to the corner of his paper where Laurent should've been, lounging on that stupid plastic chair with a wry grin on his face. Instead, it was left blank.

Makoto scowls. Glancing at Laurent who has still asleep, he sneaks his way into the Frenchman's coat, and fumbles through his wallet (very thick, remind him to grab a few bucks), his phone (Jesus Laurent a burner phone? Cagey), his leather gloves (expensive, nabbing that too) before he finds the sharp end of the pencil.

He hisses when it pricks his finger but quickly takes it to the bedside. With a few light scratches, he looks back at the picture with satisfaction. He throws the pencil haphazardly on the table before he shuffles back to Laurent's side, smiling when the blond instinctively welcomes him.

-

Laurent wakes well into the afternoon with a wince at how his muscles pull and knot with each other. Makoto shuffles from beside him, muttering nonsense as he sleeps the day away. Fondly, he presses a kiss to his forehead.

It isn't until he carries back a plate full of breakfast from room service that he sees it. It seems his little present has been unwrapped.

He's a little embarrassed by it really. He tries, he really does, but art eludes him if it isn't tied to a few, say, millions of dollars and a man (or woman!) that have died well over a century ago.

But then he notices it. Clumsier and fainter lines where he purposely left the canvas blank. 

Laurent stares at it before he bursts into laughter, something too much like _l'amour_ writhes at his heart, rebelling against his well contained (well at least until recently) desires for Edamura Makoto.

He sits on the corner of the bed then, pressing kiss after kiss until Makoto wakes with a whine and a sleepy slap to his face.

Ouch.

-

A thin string loops and hangs, trailing between Abigail and Cynthia, before it extends towards Makoto and wraps and knots itself in his pinky finger. It reaches towards the edge of the canvas, where a finger would be if one were to hold up the picture. The soft breeze from the open window lightly made the toy propeller of an airplane model run circles and circles, yet it never leaves it's perch on the table, while a candy wrapper is stored safely inside it's plastic case.

**Author's Note:**

> @frymyrisole on twt!


End file.
